Things Not Seen
by How to Train Your Moosie
Summary: Duskwing's entire "identity" is a lie; her genuine emotions are shadowed, never to see the day's light. Rushwhisker, now, is her parallel. His world is unstable and angry, but what can he do? Things aren't always what they seem.
1. Preface

**Against common belief, I'm not dead. I have just been on a very long life hiatus, during which I found out a helluva lot of crap about--never mind. Anyway, in a nutshell and with no further ado, I'm back now, with a new list of priorities and the strange, sudden urge to write once more.**

**The basic plot idea for this fic came to me many, many months ago, and, upon falling in love with it and not wanting to ruin the picture I saw playing out in my mind, at the time I carefully cached away the thought for later, since I deemed myself both unfit and un-stimulated to write it out at the time. Now, however, I have been forced to see that putting shit off isn't going to make it any better, no matter how much you wish that it was so. Thus, this was born. **

**o0O0o**

**FULL-LENGTH SUMMARY: _For Duskwing, her whole identity is a lie. A black cloak of untrue convictions surrounds her, disguising what she really is. Unknown to others is that you can never expect the truth from her: everything she does, everything she says, is an act. The cat her Clanmates know her as is naught but a giant pretense. The genuine emotions that burn inside her are shrouded deep in shadow, hidden behind a masking personality that is not her own, never to see the light of the day. _**

_**Rushwhisker, now, is Duskwing's parallel in every sense of the word. While she holds an abnormal amount of power over her doings, his might is virtually nonexistent. Entirety is his enemy: the slightest occurrence, the tiniest remark, sends him screeching into a pulsing wave of absolute fury. His world is painfully unstable and gut-wrenchingly angry, but what can he do? In his fits of rage, his body transforms into its own creature. It detaches itself from his mind, and he has no control whatsoever over his actions. **_

_**Things aren't always what they seem.**_

**RATED FOR: _Abuse, sex, and blood, among other things. You'll see._**

**DISCLAIMER: _I'm only going to say it once; I don't own Warriors._**

**o0O0o**

**This first chapter doesn't really get into the actual plot at all; in fact, I began writing the two distinct sections separately as random notebook drabbles with no original intent on incorperating them into this. I like to think of it as a starter piece to get my typing senses back into shape, but whatever. Chapter one...well, that's where the _real_ action comes into play. **

**Credit goes out to _Greenday_, along with many other various artists, for lyrics and inspiration.**

* * *

**[Things Not Seen]**

_.preface._

There is something about the fantastic experience of absolute silence that is completely and utterly beautiful.

The day will come when the sky closes over and the sun turns black, when even the moon's light of waning silver tarnishes, and you have nothing, nothing at all...no songbirds singing sterling melodies, not the fast-paced sloshing of the creek lapping up at the smooth riverbanks. The absence of all sound, even the rhythmic flutter of a swirling breeze passing through the foliage, is, most definitely, a great and terrible glory.

As you walk a lonely road, the only one that you have ever known; you don't know where it goes, but it's only you and you walk alone. Reach out and covet the sheer relief of the barren halls of the dead, those of which you yearn to stride along. And yet, at the mention of death, it makes you strange, with all the battling wars and the scars you wage, and, sometimes, you feel your blood run cold, freezing in your frosted veins, and you know with an uncanny understanding that you have passed.

_The final test._ How long have you awaited this very moment? You are so close now, tantalizingly near; the taste of victory bawls within, acidic venom boiling in your throat as you are shoved before the demon of the soul. Frothing bubbles kindle in you and you choke on the fateful reply, determined as you are to not take the bait so taunting. Lifting a limb for the final confrontation, you are startled to suddenly be touched by the glowing essence of bliss. A flash of platinum light blinds you, and you live with the burning spirit of a new dawn breaking out over the flaming horizon.

What _is_ worth living for? To be or not to be...to survive the conflagrations of existence or tear the still-beating heart out and away from your mindless senses yet again...you wish there was the option of neither. After all, how could you _not_ crave the perfect simplicity of...nothing? When the only things are you and the world, that which is so wondrously magnificent after the subtraction of the petty social drama and whatnot? To take a deep inhalation—a breath that fills your aching lungs with a different kind of beauty, one consisting merely of the freshest, cleanest, purest air—and be _free._

The time has come to apprehend, to contemplate and listen to your heart, lost in these newfound moments of solitaire serenity. Not a noise in the entire blasted world, such a pleasurable time to be spent under the luminescent blanket of a perfect, quiet night.

Ah, dear serenity...a feeling that is matched by no other: if only you could be graced by its passion more often. Alas, it is too bad that this is a harsh world of cruel virtues and agonized screams, that every time you glance around misery and dispute anticipate you. It makes it so very hard to feel any trace of compassion towards some, those who seem to believe that war is the glorious answer to everything. The matters of the treacherous creep up inside of you and consume you, a disease of the mind and of control, too; you're halfway there, and you're living on a prayer, but you cannot fight, for the pain is internal and all your fault.

Do you not find it to be rather amusing? Does a touch of humour tickle you as you reflect that you can never win and that every step you take is yet another pointless movement in this divine journey to nowhere? You do not realize that it is too late until it is, when there is nothing but the darkness closing in on you, far too close for comfort, much, much too close...

Suffocated by your own life.

What a befitting way to die, waiting until past, present and future accumulate into one jumbled pile until there is just no more room. Nothing holds them, binds them tight, so now they are free to spill over their invisible containments and engulf you, choking and throttling with icy, burning fingers, licking and lapping with silky tongues of doom.

Life fades, and yet you almost feel...grateful? No, it cannot be. The sensation is strange for the slightest fraction of a heartbeat, but then the grainy picture focuses and, suddenly, it all becomes shown in perfect clarity in your mind.

**o0O0o**

If there is one thing that I cannot stand, it is, without a doubt, they who think they know me. After all, how could they possibly perceive me with any ounce of accurate portion while I do not yet understand myself? They are utter fools, mindless imbeciles who have taken the plunge by eluding themselves into the ridiculous concept that they feel me, can sympathize with the pain, misery, and affliction that course wretchedly though my constricted veins, fuelled by each gulping beat of my ripped, shredded heart.

Am I going insane? Maybe—possibly—probably. Questions are a tragedy in the monstrous act of life, especially agonizing when there simply is no answer to the soundless query pressing on your mind. An endless stream of probing thoughts is all that they have, all that they offer, coming from a soul both frightened and bleeding. Please, take what we bring, and give what we need; have mercy on us as we fail yet again in the impossible task of accomplishing hope, the rarest action of all.

Listen to the howls of frustration that linger on the air! Do be careful, however, not to confuse them with echoes of the same name and fury, for they are not so. Can you hear it? They are indeed separate from each other, each bellow a distinctly set-apart scream of the various victims chosen by the heavens to walk the doomed path. Scars and souvenirs, burned against your dying heart as it splutters and coughs its final beats before thumping slowly into the silence that is your constant companion, your beatific friend of eternity.

My personality is twisting myth of shattered tears and shadowed sunlight, the only thing I will never secrete and all that I will ever need. I'm looking at all or nothing, just you and I, and, somehow, I know that we've got to be good for _something_, so let's go on and give it a try! We've got our backs against the ocean and it's just us against the world, and, when the end comes, you see that this is it; you've got nothing to hide. You've got only one more chance, so just say goodbye and move along on your way to figure out where it is that you belong. If you want to go home, but nobody's home, and there is no home; if you're crying aloud as you can't find your place, falling from grace as you're torn from your faith...you are the broken, you are the beaten, you are the damned.

There is so much more that I could tell you; of the ropey scars that live upon my skin, though not even a mirror close to those of the internal; of the ugly prospect that is life; of how hopes and dreams are meaningless. You wish...but, no, I'm not going to start a fight, for the ties I've severed would be better off to stay that way: dead, dispatched and sliced out of theory forever.

Some things are best kept unknown and secret to the rest of the world. If you think it horrid to be left in the dark, then you have obviously never truly experienced the agonies of _knowing._ The truth is a burden, just as life is the heartless battle of fact and fiction both you and I face each day. Perhaps you set out firm in the thought that you will never allow anybody break you down, won't ever let somebody tear your world apart: a goal that crumbles along with reality itself.

Ah, but I ramble; I apologize. And here I was, thinking so ludicrously that I could do this calmly! _Do what_, you ask? Is that the question lingering on the very tip of your tongue? Why, tell a story, of course! You may hear it if you like, I suppose; it really is no matter to me. However, I would suggest that you proceed with caution, keeping in whatever sane bits are left of your mind that it is not a pleasant tale to behold; if I were you, I would turn back and forget you ever heard anything from me. I would not consider it to be fit for all ears, and, well...you know.

...You are still here? Though I sigh internally to myself, very well; remember that you have been warned. Now listen, wanderer, and listen well...

**o0O0o**

_I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known._

_Don't know where it goes, but it's home to me and I walk alone._

_I walk alone;_

_I walk _

_Alone._

**o0O0o**

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**Drop me a line and give me an opinion, _s'il vous plaît_. **

**Have a Happy Halloween. Stay tuned for more, luvvees~**

**--Annie;;/**

**_Friday October 31, 2008_**


	2. Monster

'**Tis chapter teh first! =O I know, right? It's awesome. Don't sue me 'cause it is. **

**Thanks so much to all my lovey-dovey reviewers~ -huggles- Just don't be scared off my the length of this, 'kay? Long=sexy. Really. Seriously.**

**Oh! Before I forget, something important to note: if you've read Secrets of the Clans, you might know/remember that, before the water level dropped dramatically and ThunderClan took over it, Sunningrocks was an island belonging to RiverClan. Just saying.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Resa, who has gone to a better place. RIP, my fat one. [/WTF moment]**

* * *

**[Things Not Seen]**

_.monster._

Crisp, earthy scents hung thickly in the moist air circulating below the bush under which Rushwhisker crouched. The secluded darkness cast shadows across his smoky pelt so that he was effectively hidden as he waited for his prey. His stance was tense and agile; he flexed his claws, letting them slide in and out, and the white tip of his tail twitched back and forth in practiced anticipation. Unaware of its deathly stalker, the mouse scuffled in the damp leaves not a fox-length away. Still shrouded by the cover of the undergrowth, Rushwhisker began his descent, fangs bared, taking care to set each paw down ever so gently so that the downy rodent would not be alerted of his approach until it was too late.

He was so close now, naught but half a tail-length's distance from the smaller animal. Translucent bubbles of foaming saliva dripped from his open mouth, oozing slowly down to meet the dry earth below. In the distance, he could hear a solitary songbird chirping solemnly; behind a waving wall of reeds and cattails to his left, the steady murmur of the river rushing by on its journey downstream registered faintly in the back of his head.

Rushwhisker posed to strike.

The attack was timed perfectly. As he sprang, forelegs outstretched, back haunches bunching, a feral snarl ripped its way out of Rushwhisker's throat. The mouse's head had snapped up the moment its predator's lithe body had sprung; beady eyes glinting with panic, it made to turn and flee the scene, but not soon enough. Gleaming and sharp, Rushwhisker's claws caught its warm body at a fatal angle, twisting quickly to break the neck. It was all over in a matter of frenzied heartbeats.

His lip curled up in delight as he bent to sniff the fresh-kill, its juicy aroma wafting through his nostrils. Pleased with his catch, he picked it up in his jaws and automatically trotted off in the direction of camp.

Foul thoughts seem to explode in his mind at even the mention of returning home. At least, he called it home, but, really, the term was only by default to him, used as he was to the other cats referring to the little plot of land as such. To him, it was so much...less...than what it was to them; not an abode of cozy nests and merry exchanges as much as a place of dreading, clogging and undeniable fear. Muffled around the mouse's patchy fur, a heavy sigh escaped Rushwhisker as he stopped in his tracks to stare fixedly towards where the camp was orientated. Glancing up at the sun, which had almost reached its daily peak, he pondered over his options. Technically, he was expected back by sunhigh, but...would it really hurt to stay out just a little longer and collect some extra fresh-kill?

It was like he had had his mind made up before he had even considered changing it. His paws were already set on their sure course as he wheeled around and immediately set upon digging a shallow hole in the thin, gritty soil that made up much of RiverClan's territory, in which he placed the mouse he had just caught before burying it for later. Marking the spot, Rushwhisker sprinted away to continue with his extended hunt, the excited gleam in his eyes coming alive once more as acts of retiring to camp vanished from his priorities list.

**oO0Oo**

When he returned to retrieve the mouse, laden down with several silvery fish and a plump thrush, the sun was already well on its way to rendezvous with the flaming horizon. Rushwhisker stole a worried look up at it, feeling the despair well up once more in his belly. His breath blew out in a huff, and he longed to stay away longer, but he knew that the consequences to that would not be pretty; he was already getting a bad feeling about the lecture he would receive for staying out even this late.

Reluctance dragging like boulder-sized weights at his paws, he gathered his fresh-kill and followed the sloshing river upstream a ways. After rounding a meandering stretch of twisting bends, he leapt lightly across a bridge of smooth stones that rose above the water level, jutting even higher now that the stifling days of greenleaf had begun to merge with those of leaf-fall.

A cool breeze ruffled through his dark pelt as he reached the small island that made up RiverClan's camp. Regardless of what went on inside its walls, it was a good shelter; it had provided warmth to many generations of Clan cats in the past, and would continue to do so for the moons to come. The camp's surrounding barrier of reedy undergrowth rippled steadily in time with the saunters of the wind, calling outwards to those it yearned for.

Bracing himself, the charcoal warrior shouldered his way through the dense opening. A shady clearing dotted with draping willow trees and stunted shrubs greeted him, although the pile of smooth rocks where cats often basked did not look so inviting now that evening was settling in. Tangles of weaved branches that rimmed the glade gave way to the various dens, and Rushwhisker was suddenly looking forward to curling up in a soft bed of moss and bracken to end the day.

Yet Rushwhisker's mood and heart sank as he spotted a dark gray tom bounding towards him. His broad shoulders and lifted chin radiated superior anger tinged with acute smugness, and the amber eyes that matched his son's flashed with a crazed malice. Bowing his head in respect, Rushwhisker placed his contributions to the fresh-kill pile down and murmured a greeting while simultaneously praying, hoping...

His father's furious glare bore down on him. "You," he growled, his deep, stone-like voice echoing around the clearing; several cats' heads poked out of the bordering dens to see what the commotion was. "_Where_ in StarClan's name have you _been_, Rushwhisker? You were supposed to be back before sunhigh, and, in case you haven't noticed, that particular time frame came and went long ago." When the younger warrior hesitated, Smokethorn advanced a step forward, thrusting his neck so that the noses of father and son were a mere whisker's length apart. "I asked you a_ question_, Rushwhisker."

The younger tom clenched his jaw and gasped out, "I was...hunting. Yeah, hunting; see?" He gestured with one white paw to where his offerings lay before him, becoming desperate as he tried to throw up the shield around his mind in a flurried haste, struggling to obtain the resistance he knew he didn't have before it was too late.

It was starting, though, he could already feel it; yes, "it," the nameless demon that traced Rushwhisker's every pawstep, never far behind, always lurking in the dark as it waited to pounce. Tingling, trembling vibrations, flickering madly like minnows in a pond, were surging through him, gaining speed and intensity with each beating pulse, screaming through his veins like an unstoppable, intoxicating poison. He fought at it with every ounce of strength in his vanquished body, forcing it back to whatever cruel place it had come from, but it was no use. Taking place inside of him was a battle, an internal struggle with this...this _thing,_ and he was losing. Drastically.

Smokethorn's eyes narrowed in smouldering contempt as he surveyed Rushwhisker--Smokethorn, the cat whom Rushwhisker most despised. Smokethorn, who had never loved anycat but himself and his mate, Berryfoot, who had died bearing Rushwhisker and his stillborn sister, Tricklekit. Smokethorn, who would forever mourn his lost lover and piled the blame of her passing onto his only kit and son, who was--

"Rushwhisker," he meowed icily, "when a senior warrior—and, in this situation, we're talking about myself _being_ that warrior—orders you to have your dirty rump back to camp by sunhigh, _you are expected to do so._ DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" His speech rose louder and louder with each word; he was yowling at the top of his lungs by the end of it.

And Rushwhisker exploded.

It was as if he had lost total control of himself—and, in more ways than one, he had. His brain had been detached from the rest of his body, his nervous system completely severed. Without any warning other than the sudden prickling that spread from the toes in his paws to the pointed ends of his ears, he became a monster. An insane, deranged, mentally unstable monster that was ready to kill.

His claws flew out, his back arched, his fur bristled, inflating like a puffy black cloud around his spitting, snarling figure. The audience of curious Clan cats that had assembled around the father-son faceoff in the middle of camp shrank back in fear, terrified of getting too close to the fellow warrior that seemed feline no more.

Chest heaving and eyes burning golden fire, Rushwhisker stalked forward, towering over his father and forcing the bigger tom to totter backward several pawsteps. "Don't you dare boss me around!" The words came out a horrible, strangled hissing noise, scorching his throat and the compassing air with their passionate heat. "You think you're so great, don't you, Smokethorn? Well, guess what? You're wrong! You're not my leader and you're not the deputy, so why in StarClan's name would I ever respect you?

"I hate you so much. I hate you. _I hate you!_ I've never, ever wanted you for a father and I never will. Go die, you stupid lump of fur. Go crawl into a mangy badger hole and _die_!"

At his words, a collective gasp from the gathered cats seemed to echo across the camp before fading into an eerie silence that was broken only by the consistent chuckle of the river.

As quickly as it had come, the demon in Rushwhisker disappeared. One heartbeat and he was screeching in fury; the next, he was crouched, panting and exhausted, on the pebbles at his paws. The sudden burst of energy had already drained from his veins, and he could feel the horror setting in like a sleeping drug, mimicking his senses into a bizarre mirage. His stomach clenched.

A wide, gleeful grin now split across Smokethorn's face, which had remained blank and expressionless during his son's confrontation. Tossing his head mockingly, he scoffed, "My, my, dear son of mine. It would appear that that's twice in the past four moonrises you have...lost your temper. Are you _quite_ sure that you're alright? You may want to see Spruceberry about that; he may have some herbs to cause the bees in your worthless brain to drop dead."

Humiliated and still not totally coherent on his surroundings and what had just occurred, Rushwhisker said nothing, still trying to catch his breath and slow his sprinting heartbeat.

"I see. Well, I am afraid that, to teach you a lesson about how Clan life works and what the consequences to such shameful behaviour are, I will have to punish you. You are to clean out the elder's den until it is spotlessly clean, replace their bedding with fresh moss and remove every single tick from their fur. You are not to leave camp until you have completed your task, save for the purpose of moss collecting, and you will continue with it until you are done, even if it means you work throughout the night. Is all of this getting through to you, Rushwhisker?"

The horrid sensation was back, though perhaps not quite as strongly as last time. Acidic bubbles boiled in the depths of his body, threatening to scream aloud once more. They gripped his limbs, taking over the flimsy dominance he had over himself; the hold that always seemed so indecisive and wrenching was just about ready to fall from its rickety grace at any coming moment.

It took everything Rushwhisker possessed to stop himself from breaking again, but he managed to keep it together for some few precious seconds, holding himself rigid and in line. He croaked an unintelligible response to his father before snatching up his caught prey and stumbling off to the fresh-kill pile with an almost comical swagger, grappling with the inner monster all the while.

Flinging the dead animals onto the rest of them with unneeded force, he turned and went slowly towards the elder's den with dragging paws; the rush of chagrin had been quick in evaporating into sheer fatigue. He fought down the bitter bile clotting in his throat, his eyes misting over so he could barely see the ground in front of his nose. As they didn't seem to be working properly, he also struggled with his lungs; the air just wasn't getting through as his throat constricted more and more with each passing heartbeat.

He closed his eyes, taking in ragged breaths. _Why? _he begged of himself, groping at his mangled heart for an answer he knew would never come. _Why do I have to be this way, StarClan? What did I ever do to you to deserve this_? _It's not fair! _

The young warrior could not understand it, and he did not care to. In fact, all he wished for was that he could have the monster removed, to cut the clinging tendrils of his personal beast away from his insides and forget the feel of its probing claws lunging at his consciousness. For as long as he could remember he had been the way he was, but...what was he? The internal thing in him, the concept that ceaselessly threatened to throw him headfirst into unavoidable spasms of fury, had simply always been a part of him. As if he was constantly on the edge of a cliff, at risk of plunging over at any second, every heartbeat of his life could be classified as teetering and unsteady. Whether he desired it or not, the slightest loss in concentration forced the hand of madness.

Try as he might, Rushwhisker never could seem to find that delicate balance, could not possibly settle a compromise between the perilous drop of the gorge and the turbulence ploughing at his back. Moreover, when he did fall, which was much more often than he might like, there then came the struggle to get back up, to haul himself out of the pit he had landed in.

Yes, that was what it felt like: to Rushwhisker, it was as if he had placed that final sane morsel of him in a secret place for safekeeping. The problem was that, when he emerged coughing and spluttering from his treacherous monster's hold, he had forgotten where it was. At that point, the only thing he could resort to would be to wander aimlessly around, searching and searching for that special part of him he knew he had left behind. It sometimes seemed like he was so close, within reaching distance, even—all to no avail. The very act of stretching out to grasp sagacity summoned failure, and that was that.

Rushwhisker sighed. _Why did he even bother pondering over all of this,_ he wondered, _when he already knew that there was absolutely no point?_ He was accursed from the very start, doomed to live a heartless life from the moment he was conceived, so why should he give a flying mousedung, anyway?

A light touch on his spine wrenched him from his reveries and back into cruel reality. Snarling like nothing any cat had ever seen before, he whipped around, claws unsheathing automatically, and swung his heavy paw down towards whatever unlucky soul had dared to brush against him.

A small white she-cat stood before him.

His charging paw dragged to a full stop in mid-air as he took in the sleek pelt and plume-resembling tail. Her slight stature put her at a good height below him, and he found himself staring blankly down at her, his deadly sharp claws hanging a mere mouse-width from her creamy face.

"Why, hullo to you, too, Rushwhisker!" Icepaw meowed brightly. The RiverClan warrior said nothing as he continued to look at her, completely dumbstruck.

Careful to avoid snagging her fur in them, she cocked her head to one side and focused her bright blue eyes on the tapered claws suspended above her with teasing curiosity. "So...what's up with the whole eagle-talons thing you've got going on here? I mean, they're pretty impressive and all, but...you planning to move them from such close approximation to my skull anytime soon? Just, y'know, wondering."

Blinking slowly, Rushwhisker hesitantly lowered his foreleg back to the ground, moving as though he still expected a snake to jump out of nowhere and bite him. Rolling her eyes in baiting exasperation, Icepaw leaned over and butted her head against his shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened indecisively at the contact.

"Oh, come _on_, Rushwhisker, you silly furball! You know I'm only joking, right? ...Right?"

"Erm..." he answered at last, fixing his gaze on his shuffling paws. "Uh...sure. Of course."

She responded by sighing and licking his cheek. "You daft tomcat; what am I going to do with you?" she muttered as she pulled away.

Icepaw was, to put it simply, the best—and only—friend Rushwhisker had ever had. Other cats in the warriors den merely had the sense to shy away from the insane tom at all costs, and so, he had never had any acquaintances during his apprenticeship while growing up; the lonely trait had carried right on into his adult moons. That is, until Icepaw came along.

Though she did not quite understand the full extent of why he had such horrid fits of anger, she did her best in letting the matter blow off. Even through all those times when Rushwhisker simply could not hold himself together and turned his rage towards Icepaw, she was quick in forgiving him, as that was what the very greatest of friends were meant for. Their bond ran deep, deeper than the rocky folds at the bottom of the sea...they were bound in ways some might have never thought possible.

Throughout it all, though, their relationship remained friendship...and nothing more than that. No matter what happened, he was her best friend and she was his, and that was the extent of their liaison.

Now she regarded him with a thoughtful expression, eyes racking critically over his thick, dark pelt and adverse stance. More gently now, she murmured quietly, "You can't let him get to you. I was there, I saw what happened; Rushwhisker, Smokethorn can only hurt you like that if you allow him to! All you have to do is stand up for yourself, but...in a...better way."

He seemed to give in at last, or maybe he was only just now realizing whom it was that stood before him. His tall posture deflated as he moved forward so he could speak quietly with Icepaw with no other cat hearing. "You've given me this speech a hundred times, Icepaw, and I keep telling you that I can't—"

"I know, I know," she interjected. "I can see how hard it is for you to hold it in, but you have to keep trying! Your father only has power over you because he knows that you can't fight back; if you cut that line, what else can he hold against you?" When he did not answer, she appeared to take the hint and changed the subject, though a sigh could not fail in escaping her. "So...how about we get started on that moss, huh? No use sitting around here like a couple of lazy hedgehogs!"

"Icepaw, I really don't think you should be helping me with my punishment," he replied flatly.

She sniffed disdainfully at his remark. "Nonsense! I'm an apprentice; cleaning the elder's den is supposed to be _my_ duty, not yours, and, anyway, I can do what I want."

Seeing that there was no point in arguing, Rushwhisker looked away and turned his tail on her. "Very well, then. Have it your way. C'mon." The lifeless meow that came out of him now was nothing like it had been mere moments ago, when he had yowled out his hatred for his father for the whole of the Clan to heed. Narrowing her eyes at him, Icepaw made to follow, only to be cut off by an icy mew from behind her.

"Hello, apprentice. What, may I ask, are you doing with my _dear_ son?"

She spun around to find herself face to face with none but Smokethorn, who was leering at her with a lopsided smirk. Scrambling blindly for an acceptable excuse, she stuttered out, "I...I was...uh...I was just—"

The senior warrior didn't bother giving her time to finish. "Don't even try to lie to me, you mousebrained apprentice; I already know what you were doing, and I forbid it. My _son's--"_ he sneered the word "—penalty is his own, no exceptions. He's a big tom now; he doesn't need little she-cats to help him gather _moss_."

Feeling her eyes widen, Icepaw opened her mouth to argue, but not before Rushwhisker shoved his way up beside her, his body quivering all over as he glared at his father; horrified, she swatted him with her tail and tried to make him be quiet. Even then, he managed to get a few words out before a crisp female mew startled everyone there. The three cats—with Rushwhisker still frozen mid-yowl—looked over to see a small dark-gray-and-white she-cat glaring at them. Nobody said anything.

Finchflight, the RiverClan deputy, gave a slight cough at the barren reply she received. "Did nobody hear my question? I _said_, what seems to be the problem here?"

Smokethorn jumped a little at her words and seemed to revive, adapting a twisted expression that was a cross between malice and a strange sort of regret. Bowing his head slightly in respect, he meowed, "Deputy Finchflight! Ah, thank you for gracing us with your presence. You see, I had just finished telling Rushwhisker here off and ordering him to clean out the elder's den only to find that, to my horror, he and this young apprentice were apparently trying to skip the punishment and sneak out of camp! I was just dealing with them until you can along." While he spoke, he cast a sidelong smirk at his son, who was having obvious troubles in attempting to stay calm.

Whether or not Finchflight was fooled by the smoky tom's smooth lies, she did not show it. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and surveyed the trio with an observant gaze. "I see. And, Smokethorn, what was Rushwhisker doing in the first place, and how did you choose to discipline him?"

"Unfortunately, he was apparently finding much pleasure in disrespecting me, a senior warrior. I only saw fit to teach him a lesson about growing up and how life works, and so I sent him off to clean out the elder's den...as I have already told you."

Her blue eyes carried on in giving away nothing. Nodding at Icepaw, Finchflight inquired of her, "And you, apprentice. Why were you with Rushwhisker? Don't you have anything better to do?"

The off-white she-cat struggled for a moment before deciding to tell the truth. "I was going to go out and gather some of the moss with Rushwhisker. I'm an apprentice; isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Ringtail let me off training a while ago and told me to go enjoy the rest of the day however I wanted, and this is what I feel like doing." She spoke confidently, her chin and tail held high in defiance. Beside her, Rushwhisker was still too preoccupied with his anger to say anything.

After a few heartbeats' pause of hesitation, Finchflight cleared her throat. "Very well," the deputy mewed, authority ringing in her voice. "You may go. If all you wish to do is help your friend collect more moss, then you may."

Smokethorn stepped forward with an enraged look on his face. "Finchflight, I really don't think—"

She cut him off sharply. "What, Smokethorn? What do you think? Remember that I am your deputy; really, you shouldn't be punishing your fellow Clanmates this way. Come to me or Cinderstar if you think something needs to be done. You know, sometimes I think that you get far too out of hand. Learn to restrain yourself, hmm?"

Muttering an angry apology alongside a "yes, of course," Smokethorn ducked his head in irritation and stalked away from the small group, mumbling to himself all the way.

The three of them--deputy, warrior and apprentice--were left alone in the shadows of the reeds. It was silent for a moment before Rushwhisker spoke again, his voice a rasping whisper. "_Thank you_," he breathed. With that, he turned tail and swept out of camp with Icepaw on his heels.

**o0O0o**

The moment they left the barriers of camp and stepped out into the orange light pouring from the last sliver of sun everything seemed to relax. The crackling tension surrounding Rushwhisker vanished to become an envelope of soft security, calm and quiet as the slippery black sheet of ice that covered the river in the dead of leaf-bare. A subconscious breath of air escaped him in the form on a happy sigh, rather surprising the young tom and leaving him blinking in pleasurable shock.

Icepaw nudged him with the tip of her rose petal-coloured nose, a slight purr fluttering in her throat. Batting him playfully with an outstretched paw and dancing backwards to avoid his swiping counterattack, she yowled a joyful little exclamation and pranced away from him, tail waving. "C'mon, Rushwhisker! We're free now; don't let ol' ratface bother you." More gently now, she added, "Your father can only hurt you like that if you let him, you know. Smokethorn may be a senior warrior, but he's not deputy, as you...er...pointed out back there. If you really think something is wrong, you should tell Cinderstar, or maybe Spruceberry; I'm sure either of them could help."

A menacing shadow seemed to darken the world at her urging words, and Rushwhisker drew back from his best friend abruptly. "No," he meowed flatly, trying to keep back the engulfing sensation that suddenly gripped him as red-hot anger kindled in his eyes like the dying embers of a piece of coal. "No, Icepaw, I can't, you know I can't. Don't pretend you don't know why, either. I have to keep this secret to myself...StarClan wouldn't want me to go parading off to tattle to the Clan leader or medicine cat, and, anyway, I'm not discussing it. Case closed."

The white she-cat knew better than to object. "Very well," she mewed softly. "Let's get going on that moss, then, shall we?"

Though he had not been previously aware that it had been bristling, Rushwhisker felt the fur along the arch of his back lie flat. The cheery note back in his voice, he leapt up to his paws and meowed excitedly, "You're right. Let's go!"

Not seeming to find the complete turnaround in attitude neither eerie nor strange, Icepaw followed his lead. They headed on their way to the rocky clearing that supplied the bedding for most of RiverClan. Skidding along the gravelly ravine slope, they bounded after one another, laughing and purring blissfully. They soon approached the widest part of the river, where Sunningrocks, a round island enclosed by a circle of brushy shrubs, sat in its sloshing midst. The two Clan cats stepped lightly over the stones that lead across the churning water, jumping the distance from the last one to the island's shore.

They pushed through the outer wall of vegetation to find themselves standing upon a smooth expanse of rock. The gray surface felt cool under their paws, although it was warm and sunny during the daytime--the ultimate place to RiverClanners to bask. Moss grew at the end furthest from where they stood, towards ThunderClan territory; the duo bounded over and ducked into the cover of the trees that housed fuzzy moss on their trunks and roots.

As they set to work at stripping the moss and accumulating it into a pile, the warrior and apprentice quietly conversed. It started as harmlessly polite queries.

"So," Rushwhisker meowed casually as he tossed another bit of soon-to-be-bedding over his shoulder, "how's your training going?"

"Mm, not bad, I suppose. Ringtail works me pretty hard, especially when we do fighting skills, but it's okay. He knows a lot." She nodded to herself as she worked, crouching down to tug a piece of moss from where it was pinned by a curling root tendril.

The gray tom showed his agreement with a slight dip of his head, although he didn't say anything. Icepaw continued, "And the other day, well, it was pretty funny. You know my father, Cloudstripe? He took me out hunting while Ringtail was sick in the medicine cat den, and about halfway through he crept up behind me, knocked me over and started teasing me about how slow I--"

She stemmed the words quickly, but it was already too late; the damage was done. Rushwhisker's whole body was trembling again, shoulders hunched and face bowed close to the ground in a miserable attempt to contain himself. Icepaw abandoned the moss she had been attempting to free and padded over to her friend; he raised his head to look at her as she approached, and her belly tightened at the misery swimming relentlessly in his amber eyes. Moving closer, she licked his cheek soothingly, though it did nothing to suppress the relentless guilt that overpowered her.

"I'm so sorry, Rushwhisker. So, so sorry; I should have known better, I should have realized..."

He held her blue gaze steadily, though she could still see the obvious effort he was putting into restraint. "It's alright, Icepaw, really. Don't blame yourself. I know you didn't mean it.

The creamy white cat's usually proud composure was still crippled, a painful mixture of weak and vulnerable looking as she stared at him. "Are you sure?" she asked in a small voice.

"Of course I'm sure. It's my fault entirely, not yours."

Horror scorched her, and her uncertainty was swept away by the wave of ferocity that struck her. "What? Rushwhisker, how could you?" she cried, springing to her paws so she could look down on his cowering form. "How in StarClan's name can you say that, you stupid, thick-skulled tom? Don't be stupid; none of this is your mistake at _all_, so you can just forget about throwing the blame on yourself. It's not a crime to be...to be different, you know. You are who you are, and nothing can change that."

If anything, her cold words and glare only made him feel guiltier, but of course he did not tell her that; it would only make matters worse, if possible. Sighing, he blocked the monster flowing through his veins, staggering slightly at the amount of energy the action cost him. "Yes, Icepaw," he muttered, his skin growing hot under his fur as he visualized how much he sounded like a four-moon-old kit after patronizing his mother.

He looked at Icepaw, the feisty apprentice who had been his very best friend for as long as he could remember; the sole companion he had ever known. Out of all the cats in the forest, she alone had given him a chance, and relentlessly stood by him throughout all the enraged energy that ruptured from him so often. Heart clenching with bottomless guilt, he thought back to all the times his temper had taken the best of him, causing him to turn his back on her like the despicable traitor he was. Even then, she had prevailed, persevering in seeing the good in him and pardoning his furious verbal blows at the first chance she inherited.

Sitting in the shadows thrown across the ground, the breeze ruffling their fur and the constant tumble of the river still in earshot, an apprehending light sparked in Icepaw's eyes. A dainty shudder rippled across her pelt at the same time as a look of something like terror—or was it exhilaration? Maybe it was both--passed over her. Yet her posture suggested shyness as she moved hesitantly towards him, glancing coyly at him from under a long tuft of pale fur. Unsure of what to say, she hesitated, her mouth hanging open slightly, eyes flicking nervously around the clearing as though she was worried some cat might be lurking there, poised to jump out from the bushes at any moment.

"Rushwhisker, do you...do you need it again? Do you think that perhaps that...that _thing_ might help you?" She touched her tail to his shoulder in what might have been a reassuring fashion if not for the anxiety flaring in her eyes.

The warrior's twin amber moons widened at her offer, and he had absolutely no chance at deterring the wave of passion that shuddered through him. Dumbstruck, he fidgeted under her touch before speaking in a rasping voice, a raunchy growl that dragged from his throat like the final moan of a dying animal.

"_Yes_."

His eyes were all lit up as he moved automatically towards her, soundless, feral snarls working their way out of him. Fangs bared and dripping saliva, he lunged forward and waited there, making ready to press himself against his best friend's body with hungry strength the moment she was ready.

As trembling convulsions ran down her spine in spastically constant intervals, Icepaw bent before Rushwhisker in a most curious position. Ears flattened against her head and forepaws stretched out in front of her, she curved her back in a sloping downward arch as her raised rump hovered in the air, hind legs crooked slightly and tail held off to the side. The fast-paced breaths of air she panted in and out were not the only factor to betray her fear; the wild illumination in her eyes glowed with a scintillating blue dread. Her front claws slid out from their sheathings so she could bury them into the pale sand while Rushwhisker approached from behind, tracing swirling patterns across her fur with his tail and drawing her closer, closer, closer...

He hadn't been aware that his eyelids were closed until they snapped open of their own accord and his vision was suddenly flooded with blinding white heat. _Where was he?_ It scared him that he did not know and horrified him when he realized. Teeth buried in the snowy hairs in Icepaw's scruff, he was perched over her slender frame in a most alluring way, like a Twoleg rider mounting its horse. All of a sudden, he was cold all over, could feel the freezing sensation surging through his body like the gorge's roaring waterfall. The only part of him that was not numb was his brain, which was flipping through thoughts faster than he could comprehend.

_Should he do this? Was it right? Did he even _want _to? He was wrong in letting it happen, he knew, but...he was just so _frustrated_. Why couldn't StarClan have granted him a regular life like everyone else? If he allowed this to happen, there was no going back...but it's not like it had never been gone through with before, right?_

He could move his eyes again; it would appear that he was beginning to thaw out. His line of vision flickered madly around; from the trees as shadows kinked across them, thrown from the final rays of light reflected by the sun; the darkening sky above, which was now a charcoal blue shot through with varying streaks of pink; to the vibrating form huddled under him, who was so much like—

Breath stopped entering his lungs the instant he caught a glance of Icepaw's eyes, which were squeezed shut in vacillating anticipation. The amount of distress and strain painted across her face was shocking, and, in that heartbeat, Rushwhisker knew that he could not go on.

His tense muscles loosened, and he could move again. With only a minuscule flash of hesitation, he clamoured off the apprentice, haste making him clumsy and embarrassingly disoriented. Once she was clear of him, his rush of strength evaporated and he collapsed to the ground.

He was not to be left lying there for long. A soft touch on his cheek made him raise his head to see Icepaw standing over him, a worried look overpowering her expression. "Rushwhisker?" Her mew was shaky and uncertain.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he heaved himself laboriously to his paws, still shaking slightly. His cool amber eyes were tense as he regarded his friend; after a moment, he took in a gulping swallow and averted his gaze to the island floor.

"No, Icepaw..." he whispered hoarsely, "I—not this time. Not now, since we have...other stuff to be doing. Maybe later, okay?" Speaking the words strangled him, but he knew they had to come out.

She continued to look at him evenly, concern shimmering in her azure eyes. "Are you sure?"

He was. Swinging around with a sweep of his tail, he snatched up the clump of moss and faced the shadows that blotted out the yonder world from view. "C'mon; let's get back to camp. Smokethorn will be excepting us."

* * *

**...**

**8DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

**Just tell me that that wasn't teh smex.**

**...No, really; tell me. In a review, dammit! Now!**

**--Annie;;/**

**_Tuesday December 2, 2008_**


	3. Reflection

**-deep breath- The long-awaited second chapter. Wow. Never thought I'd see the day, considering the fact that I didn't even have a chapter outline just three weeks ago. I guess kicking your own butt into action really does work. (And I could go there, but I really don't feel like it today. So I'll pass on it.)**

**And now for a few review replies.**

**[**** ; "If Smokethorn is not the deputy, how TF does he have the authority to punish Rushwhisker? A cat that is not the deputy or leader can't do that, period."] **Without giving too much away about the future of this fic, I'll tell you that there's a general exception here. You see, everycat in the Clan is aware of the fact that Rushwhisker's pretty crazy—it's not like it's that hard to figure out; all you have to do is observe—so there are some lenient lines in that area. Also, since Smokethorn is his father and therefore his next-of-kin, you sort of have to assume that the leader or deputy has given him some privileges.

**[****Shandril Wielder Of Spellfire**** ; "How old is Icepaw anyway? And I wasn't talking about Rushwhisker and Icepaw, although it was a bit graphic. Icepaw and her dad... *shudder*"]** ...Oh, shit. It did sound like that, didn't it? DDD8 Okay, let me clear this up: in the original version [of chapter one] I posted, there was a part that said that Icepaw's father, Cloudstripe, came up behind her and jumped on her. That was some really stupid phrasing on my part, as I didn't mean it _that_ way at all. What I really meant was that he was teasing her, in a friendly fashion; the line has been switched now, but what I meant to portray was just that they have a very strong parent-offspring relationship. -nod- I hope that particular section didn't confuse anybody too immensely.

**In addition to the above point, I also had several people asking me what it was that Icepaw said that set Rushwhisker off, exactly. -mutter- See, I **_**knew**_** that I should have made it clearer. -_- So. When the two of them were at Sunningrocks while gathering moss, Icepaw basically started talking about her and her dad's close father-daughter relationship, a relationship that's kind of weak in Rushwhisker's case (…except, in **_**his**_** case, he wouldn't be a daughter xD). I hope that made sense, anyway. **

**Now, onto the show!**

* * *

**[Things Not Seen]**

_.reflection._

The endless gush of water pouring into the gorge seemed to go on for forever. As she watched it froth and bubble with her paws rooted to the ground, Duskwing wondered to herself where it all could possibly be coming from, and if there would ever be a day when the sun would rise over the horizon and the water would flow no more. Though rather on the frightening side, she thought the idea to be merely inevitable; there had to be an end to everything, right?

A soft cry calling her name startled her away from her thoughts and into reality. Turning her head, she spotted a tabby she-cat standing in the brush several fox-lengths away; only her head was poking out from the dense undergrowth, and a rather impatient expression drew furrows in her fur.

"Come _on_, Duskwing!" the newcomer meowed roughly. "Redfeather says to hurry up with whatever it is you're doing and get on with it, for StarClan's sake! We're the border patrol, and you know how--"

Duskwing interrupted her rambling with a quick "Coming, I'm coming!" Her tone was smooth. Without another glance back at the gorge, she hurried after Willowheart, who turned and padded back into the bushes. Both she-cats pushed their way through the leaves, which eventually opened out to a round clearing where a reddish tabby tom was pacing impatiently; a small silver she-cat stood nearby, looking nervous. When the two young warriors appeared, the ginger cat opened his jaws in a yowl, the fur along his spine bristling with indigence.

"Great StarClan, there you are! At last. Thank you, Willowheart, for fetching Duskwing here. Goodness knows what takes you so long! Dawdling, no doubt, when there's work to be done." Fixing Duskwing with a stern gaze, Redfeather continued with his scolding, his tone still portraying his irritation. "Cinderstar told us to check the WindClan border and train Mintpaw along the way, and that's just what I intend to do."

Duskwing blinked. "Of course, Redfeather; I apologize. It won't happen again." Her face had not changed once during the confrontation, her eyes staying trained on her superior's.

With a curt nod, the senior warrior whisked around. "Good. Let's go, Mintpaw!" The light grey apprentice bounded after him, the darker stripes along her back rippling in the midday sun, leaving Willowheart and Duskwing alone in the glade. Duskwing followed without another word.

After a moment's hesitation, she heard the pounding paws of pursuit coming up behind her. Willowheart appeared there, a curious look on her face as she eyed the dark brown tabby. "What's up with you today, Duskwing?'

In response, Duskwing froze in place, and then she quickly pushed the flat terror that rose in her throat away. This time around, though, her recollection was swift; when she faced her friend, Duskwing's level expression was calm and confident, her chin lifted slightly. "Pardon?" she questioned, her meow completely unlike its previous manner of a few heartbeats ago.

Only a little shocked at Duskwing's drastic change in personality, Willowheart stammered back, "Oh, I don't know . . . I suppose you seemed a little . . . off, or something. If everything alright?"

Although she didn't move, Duskwing mentally cursed herself for slipping so. She would have clawed herself, but of course her mask of instincts would never betray in allowing her to do so. Instead, she continued on coolly, "I'm fine. I apologize for making you worry."

Willowheart looked at her strangely for a moment before the corners of her mouth turned up into an easy grin. Nudging her fellow warrior playfully with her soft pink nose, she mewed, "Okay, then. You're so silly, Duskwing!" They loped away together, running side by side down the well-worn trail until they came to meet up with Redfeather, who was giving Mintpaw a few crouching pointers in the shade of a drooping willow. Duskwing was curious why the young grey apprentice was with the red tomcat instead of with her real mentor, Oakfoot. She whispered her concerns into her companion's ear, her voice showing nothing but friendliness now.

Willowheart regarded Redfeather and Mintpaw curiously for a moment. "I don't know where Oakfoot is, or what he might be doing," she admitted at last.

"Hmm," murmured Duskwing. "That's queer."

Willowheart nodded her head in agreement; and a few heartbeats of silence passed. Then, with a quick glace at Redfeather, Willowheart turned to Duskwing, and the dark tabby she-cat caught a glimmer of embarrassed excitement in her friend's eyes before she ducked her head. Barely moving her lips, she mumbled something hardly audible to Duskwing.

"I'm sorry, but what was that?"

She repeated herself, a little louder this time. "I like him."

"Like _who_?"

Willowheart jerked her head towards where Redfeather was just demonstrating how to wriggle your haunches while you stalked your prey. "Aw, c'mon, Duskwing! Who do you think?"

Duskwing stared in disbelief. "You like _Redfeather_?!"

Cringing inward a little, her friend balked and threw a glance at him to make sure he had not heard before carrying on in lowered tones. "Yes!"

"_Why?_"

"What do you mean, 'why?' Why ever_ not_?" Willowheart gave a long sigh, and a dreamy look crept into her gaze as it stayed focused on the ginger warrior crouching in the shade several fox-lengths away. "I mean, his fur is so gorgeously coloured and sleek, and his voice flows over your ears so richly that you'd think it was honey. And those green eyes of his, I swear to StarClan . . ."

"You are _such_ a mousebrain, Willowheart! You do realize that you're judging him entirely on his physical appearance, right? That you don't seem to have given any thought whatsoever to his actual personality? To the type of cat he might be _after_ you look passed the good looks . . . ?" Duskwing blinked and trailed off. Had she really just said that?

It didn't seem that Willowheart had noticed the hesitation, though, as she ploughed on, "Hey, hey, now! I haven't gotten to that yet. I mean, I don't suppose that he's ever really spoken to me _personally_, but I've seen him around the kits in the nursery and his friends and everything, and he seems really great. Oh! And did I mention that . . ."

Duskwing wasn't paying attention to the rest. Her mind, including the thoughts that she usually kept so well guarded, were elsewhere.

Yes, she confided to herself in a rare moment of personal speculation, it was true. It was little more than a brevity, but still, it was true. She longed to flex her claws in anger at herself and guilt at the world, but her limbs were frozen, and the most she could allow herself to do was blink and incline her head skyward, as if she were watching the clouds.

Really, though, she was cursing.

Willowheart prattling on beside her eventually deposited her back into her mechanized world. She pulled a smile out of . . . somewhere and proceeded to paste it onto her face while she forced herself to look at her friend and listen to her babbling. So she was still gloating about Redfeather. Duskwing smothered the sigh and conscripted to attentiveness.

After a while, Redfeather signaled for them to come over. "My apprentice for the day is finished with her crouching lesson," he announced proudly as they approached. "Show Duskwing and Willowheart how it's coming along, Mintpaw!" Looking apprehensive, the little she-cat dropped down and crept forward, struggling to hold her body as instructed. When she had gone a few tail-lengths, she stopped and turned expectantly; Redfeather waved his tail in encouragement.

Sidling up beside the older warrior, Willowheart gave a throaty purr and flicked him with her tail. "You did great job of mentoring her, you know," she meowed softly. In response, he glanced uncertainly at her before nodding authoritatively.

"Err . . . sure. Thanks, uh, Willowheart. Now, let's finish this patrol. We'll trek along the WindClan border, and from there we'll get to . . ."

As he continued talking, Dusking had to restrain another _huff _of exasperation at the adoring twinkle in Willowheart's gaze. _He is _never _going to look at you_, she thought in annoyance. _He's a _senior warrior_, for StarClan's sake! And what are you, a foolish young she-cat? You can dream all you like, Willowheart, but, really, since when have dreams come true? Remember that those dreams can just as easily turn into nightmares._

Life was a masquerade, a bloody masquerade! Oh, paper faces on parade, masquerade, masquerade. Duskwing's head was spinning like mad, and it felt oddly cloudy; she couldn't seem to shake the fog from her mind. Yes, a masquerade: that was the truth, and it crushed her, but what else could she do other than hide her face so the world could never find her? Nothing. Because it was a part of her, engraved so deeply into her skin that she doubted any amount of polishing could erase it.

She wore a mask of emotions, and the truth was that the emotions she portrayed were not her own.

Her façade . . . she wasn't even sure why she did it. Anyway, reasons really didn't matter; why ponder on the past when you had your whole future ahead to plan for instead? Even so, "plan" certainly wasn't the best-fitting word; she was rarely conscious of the fact that she never told anyone what she was feeling and instead played the part of a cat she wasn't.

Sometimes, on the various occasions that her awareness would peak and she would ponder over what she was doing and why, she pitied her "friends." No, they didn't know about her, and why should they? Her guise of deception was so total and flawless that she honestly didn't think that they had ever held doubts that the cat they knew as Duskwing wasn't, in fact, the real Duskwing at all. They treated her like they did all their other Clanmates, and she did the same back—it was as if they were equals. Together they gossiped, laughed, behaved like any friends simply having a good time enjoying each others' company. And so the pretense carried on.

Inside was where the true battle raged. While on the exterior Duskwing would appear calm and nonchalant at certain aspects, in her head she was nearly suffocated by the power of her thoughts. They longed to escape from their eternal prison, to break free of the cell-like walls that were the brown she-cat's mind, to speak their grace and opinion and question--but they never did. Sometimes they struggled against their invisible barriers, and sometimes they were close to breaking through . . . only to be halted by the shadowed cloak of convictions around her.

Everything was an act.

**o0O0o**

When the border patrol returned to camp, the four cats split and headed off to their respective duties. On the way back, they had found out from Redfeather why Mintpaw had been training with him that day over Oakfoot, her mentor: it turned out that Oakfoot's mate, Splashpelt, was giving birth to their kits that day, and he had wanted to stay in camp with her. Duskwing had smiled robotically at the explanation, knowing that new kits for RiverClan were always a good sign. Perhaps she would go and visit them later.

She decided to bring some food to the elders' den. From the fresh-kill pile she chose a rather plump rabbit; with leaf-fall setting in, all the animals in the forest, though already fat on greenleaf's indulgences, were making sure to eat as heartily as they could before the cold weather truly came. With the prey in her jaws, she padded across the reed-enclosed clearing and slipped inside the willow bush where the elders made their nests.

Inside, it was cool and airy, and you could just hear the whisper of the water rustling by the rushes behind. Tinglepelt, the oldest cat in the Clan, was curled in a grizzled ginger heap in one corner; while he dozed, two more elders shared tongues drowsily beside him. One of them, a light orange tabby, glanced up as Duskwing came in, sniffing, and then let out a purr. "Why, just look who's come to visit! Do you not have time for your old mum anymore?"

Duskwing merely looked at her mother, unable to speak around her mouthful of rabbit. Cherrywhisker had been a spirited warrior, but she had been obliged to retire to the elders' den because of her failing sight; her bright green eyes couldn't see much more than blurred shapes, and so she relied mostly on her sense of smell to lead her around. The third and final elder, Browntail, nodded his greetings to the newcomer.

Duskwing set her offering on the sandy ground. "Hello, Mother, Browntail," she meowed, dipping her head to each of them in turn. "I've brought you something to eat, unless you've already eaten . . . ?"

Her question was quickly answered by a jolly, "Oh, no! Not at all," from Browntail. Smiling just a little, Duskwing moved the prey closer to him; she had always liked the dark brown tom's boisterous, but good-hearted, manner. With a hearty, "Much appreciated, young'un," he plunged his cream muzzle into the rabbit and started to strip away the meat.

Cherrywhisker laughed and prodded him with her tail. "Leave some for me, won't you? Mouse-brained tomcat, always starving; it's no wonder you're so fat and lazy!" She rolled her nearly-sightless eyes and turned back to her daughter, whose expression was considerate.

"What about Tinglepelt?" Duskwing asked, glancing at the sleeping elder.

"Oh, don't you worry about him. If he's hungry when he wakes up, I'll ask an apprentice to fetch something for him," Cherrywhisker reassured her. She heaved herself to her paws and walked over to her kit, her bones creaking with age. Ignoring the loud chewing noises that rose behind her, she meowed, "I've missed you, dear one," and licked the top of Duskwing's head, who half-closed her eyes and purred at the touch. It felt nice.

Duskwing twisted her neck and rasped her tongue over her mother's shoulder before resting her head there. Strong emotions bubbled in her, and these were hard to restrain, for their weighty containments of deep love were powerful. For a moment she felt like a kitten again, nestled close to her mother's side with nothing in the world to care about, but now . . . She shook away the thoughts as if they were an irritable fly.

Stepping away, she mewed, "I love you, too, Mother. I have to go now, though."

Cherrywhisker's green eyes flickered to the side, their sight hazy and fading. "Of course you do. Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep you from your duties! Go on, now, and remember that I'm proud of you." There was a pause. "Your father would have been proud of you, too." With one last lick and a smile, the old ginger queen turned back to Browntail and the remains of the fresh-kill. Duskwing exited the den, her pawsteps thoughtful.

Her father had been Owlstorm, but he was dead now; he had died in battle with ThunderClan when Duskwing was very young. She could barely remember him. The memories she did have, though, were of a big, warm body nuzzling her gently as a tiny kit, and they brought pangs of loneliness to her heart. Her mother always said that she looked just like him, with matching dark brown tabby pelts and blue eyes. Duskwing wished she could have known him better.

"Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly; she had been padding pathlessly across the middle of the camp clearing, and she hadn't been looking where she was going. With a bump and a startled cry, she walked straight into a dust-coloured tabby tom. Cowering into the earth, she stared upwards--right into a pair of blue eyes that were just like hers.

"Duskwing!" the tomcat meowed, surprise painting his voice. "What are you doing?"

Feeling very foolish, she flattened her ears and mumbled an apology. Her older brother was a kind, caring cat, and she knew he wouldn't really be angry, but she was still embarrassed at her klutziness. When she glanced up again, Aspentooth's gaze was amused.

Smirking, he chastised his little sister, "Silly she-cat! Always running into things . . . and cats. What's gotten into you these days?"

Though his tone was obviously teasing, she felt her skin grow hot under her fur and inwardly snapped at herself to hold the mask on and keep it from slipping, for StarClan's sake! She let mockery into her words, though, when she spoke. "Greatest apologies, O high and worldly warrior! I shall not cross your divine path again."

Even as she said it, her thoughts grew crestfallen. There had once been a time when she and Aspentooth had been fairly close for siblings of different litters, but that easy friendship had melted away as his status within the Clan became that of a senior warrior.

As if to state proof of this fact, Aspentooth suddenly raised his head and stared off into the distance like someone had called his name. "I have to go," he meowed abruptly. "Bye, Duskwing." With that, he brushed passed her and stalked hurriedly across the clearing to attend apparently more important matters. She stared blankly after him, blotting out mixed confusion and disappointment.

After a few heartbeats, she shook herself and gazed around the camp. Sunset was approaching, and what cats that weren't still out hunting or patrolling were sprawled lazily around, eating and laughing with their friends. She searched out Willowheart and was annoyed to see that she was parading after Redfeather again, hovering a few paces away while he shared a joke with Cinderstar and Finchflight. Aggravated with her friend's foolish fantasies, Duskwing went over to the fresh-kill pile again and took a small vole for herself.

She lay down beside the warriors' den, in the partial shade of a small shrub with orange flowers that smelled of honey. The sweet aroma filled her nostrils as she ate, clearing and soothing her thoughts. When she was done, she scraped dirt over the remains and got to her paws.

The camp seemed unusually quiet, and she wondered where everyone had gone. Snoozing in their dens, perhaps? Lazy furballs. The dark tabby shook her striped head, but rising in her heart was rather smug comprehension of where she was now headed.

Burbling river sounds echoed out across the late-greenleaf breeze as Duskwing made for the reed barrier. Just before she reached it, the stalks rustled and a lithe grey shape pushed through, its jaws gripping several pieces of prey--Rushwhisker, Duskwing quickly recognized. She stepped aside to let him through, and he strode right by her without seeming to notice her. Stopping herself from rolling her eyes, she pushed through herself once the way was clear.

She felt free once she was alone. She leapt away from the island using the stepping stones and plunged into the coppice, paws skidding on the wet ground. Her shadow kept pace with her as she ran alongside the river, looking strangely distorted and stretching longer by the heartbeat. Passed Sunningrocks she bounded, downstream away from the RiverClan camp and Fourtrees. Gradually, the undergrowth thickened, looking more like the dense ThunderClan trees that grew just across the sloshing expanse of water. Their branches swept out low above the ground, but though she had to duck every now and then she didn't stop. At least, not until she came to her destination she didn't.

When at last she reached the clearing, she slowed to a hesitant walk, her paws barely brushing the damp leaves that carpeted the forest floor. Absentmindedly, she noticed that it was suddenly very quiet--not even the birds chirped--save for the wind in the foliage. Duskwing imitated the silence.

She moved forward like a snake, letting her paws carry her soundlessly as she slithered down the gravelly ridge. The last rays of sun peeped through the enclosing trees, casting oddly-shaped shadows over the ground and causing glittering refractions to dance upon the surface of . . .

The Water.

There it was, standing smooth and undisturbed, and of course it was there, because it always was, and it always would be! _No_, Duskwing felt like purring as she glided up to its edge, it _would never leave her, never reject her, never betray her. _It_ would always be there for her._

She crouched beside it now, keeping her face solemn; it seemed to be appropriate, considering the surrounding atmosphere. Then, after a few moments more of silence, she let it go. Her jaws parted widely to reveal two rows of gleaming teeth, and, leaning over it, she saw the Water copy her as it grinned a huge grin, too.

Bubbling up inside Duskwing came a deep pang of satisfaction, and when it scorched her throat and announced its burning desire to be let out she didn't even bother to attempt restrictions. Before she could fully grasp what was happening, she was laughing; but it was not the friendly laughter one makes at a joke, no, it was much more. It was a cackle, a maniacal shriek of uncontrollable insanity. The sound bellowed from her lungs like it would never end (but of course all things do) and echoed dramatically around the tiny glade of a valley. Contained in the laughter was everything, absolutely everything: her daily troubles, her fears, her pain, her love, her pride, her mask--or the remnants of it, anyway, as it was shed from her like an adder sheds its skin.

Then, as quickly and suddenly as it had come, the laughter stopped.

Duskwing was still smiling as she lowered her gaze from the heavens. Her blue eyes flashed with crazed glee, as did the Water's. She looked down into those eyes, those great big_ other_ eyes that shimmered with fascination. Yet contained within them was more than that, a grim edge that was not unlike her earlier solemnness.

"You're insane," she told herself, calmly and clearly. Her voice was serious and did not contain an ounce of humour, as if she hadn't just announced her rather unstable state of mentality.

She let loose another cackle, although this bout did not last nearly as long. "Oh, Duskwing, you are _so_ completely insane," she purred. She had been standing with her paws a shoulder-width part, but now she sat down with a _thump_ and tucked her paws under her pale chest fur. Blinking down at the Water, she cleared her throat and opened her mouth to speak.

"Why," Duskwing meowed, and genuine surprise coloured her words, "I do suppose I haven't actually said hello yet!" Another giggle followed the statement. "Goodness me, but I apologize for my ignorance. Hello, there, Water."

There was no answer, but she smiled nonetheless. Continuing conversationally, she prattled on, "How was your day today, hmm? Mine, well, I guess you could call it semi-eventful." She went on to tell the water all she had done since the sun rose, explaining in great detail how she had been chosen to attend the WindClan border patrol and what had happened along the way. She chatted about Willowheart's silly obsessions with a senior warrior that would never look twice at her as a mate, of her worries of her mother's failing sight, of her brother's ever-growing nonchalant attitude towards her, of the exact flavours of the vole she'd eaten earlier.

The discussion was engaging; Duskwing threw herself into it full-force, letting out every previously-unspoken thought on her mind and her opinions on everything. She snickered at the gossip, sighed at the tragedies, cooed over the thought of Splashpelt's newborn kits. Such constant palaver would have exhausted any other cat, but after so long without speaking her mind there was never an awkward pause to fill as she poured what would seem like her whole heart out.

In response, the Water said nothing.

At last Duskwing stopped and, keeping her gaze trained on Water, cocked her head to the side. There was a lull of sound, and then: "I notice that you haven't said anything yet, Water," she meowed with a frown. "Care to explain why that is?"

No reasoning came, and the brown tabby narrowed her eyes. "Very well," she snapped, aggravated, "be like that." Then her tone was light again. "Oooh, I've just thought of something! Do you want to play a game, Water? Yes, yes, of course you do!" Now she was bouncing up and down in her excitement, just like a kit overjoyed to be let out of the nursery. "Let's have ourselves a game, shall we? Yes, yes, a _riddle _game! We can ask each other clever questions and, oh, this is going to be so _fun_! Ahahahaha!"

More laughing. Then she calmed herself, sighing lightly in contentment before carrying on.

"Okay, I'll start and then you can guess. Hmm. First riddle!" She then asked:

_What has a mouth but can't chew?_

It was completely silent for a moment, and then . . . well, actually, nothing else happened, but Duskwing certainly seemed to think so. "Teehee!" she mewed, her whiskers twitching in amusement. "That was an easy one; kind of ironic, actually. Don't you just love irony?" She bared her teeth for another moment before mewing, "Now! Ready for another?"

_If you break it,  
It does not stop working;,_  
_If you touch it,  
It may be snared;  
If you lose it,  
Nothing will matter._

The Water sat thoughtful and quiet as ever, and after a while Duskwing purred. She enjoyed riddles very much, but she didn't often find somebody to share them with. And so they piled up in her head where they were cast whenever she was to think of a new one, always there and whispering to remind her of their presence. She was very glad that she had the opportunity to speak them now, and, rather on cue with her thoughts, said:

_When you have me, you feel like sharing me. __  
__But, if you do share me, you don't have me. __  
__What am I?_

Now all was quiet once more, leaving the brown warrior to duck and give herself a quick wash. When she had licked her creamy chest fur smooth and spotless, she raised her head and frowned at the Water, her mouth pulling downwards at the corners. "Come, now, Water!" she murmured, "that one wasn't all that hard! They are all around us, after all . . . ." When there was once again no answer, she let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine!" she snapped, but next time she spoke there was again good humour in her voice. "I suppose that you are just teasing, hmm? Waiting for another, and another, and another still after that. _Hmmph!_ Very well, then, and here you are!"

_Yet flying swiftly past, __  
__For a child I last forever, __  
__For adults I'm gone too fast._

Well, there certainly was a long lull after this, during which nobody uttered a word and not even the forest animals chattered to each other. After some time of staring down at the ground, a new riddle idea sprang into Duskwing's mind. Carefully unsheathing one paw, she stretched out one slender foreleg and drew it through the sand. The damp material held its shape well, and so as the tabby she-cat dragged her claw across the pebbly dirt twisting patterns were left behind.

When she was finished with her drawing, she pulled back slightly, pleased, and surveyed her work. Well, it wasn't exactly spectacular, but it was something! Turning back to the Water, she waved her tail at the feline-resembling image. While flicking the finishing touches of whiskers onto the picture of a cat, she began talking again.

"Hey, Water, check it out! See this picture? This picture I've drawn? This is your new riddle!" And, making the question of logic up as she went, she continued:

_This she-cat's mother is my mother's daughter. __  
__So who did I draw?_

Done and rather proud of herself for such craftiness (because, though the riddle's answer was not entirely accurate in truth, she still considered it to be quite clever, indeed!), Duskwing raised her head and glanced at the Water. Yet again, her one and only condolence showed no acknowledgement that it neither heard nor cared. Crestfallen, her face fell.

The forest stood still for several heartbeats, hushed as though it was holding its breath. Then Duskwing was howling.

"Answer me! Oh, Water, why won't you answer me?" Her yowl echoed through the trees, full to the brim with mixed agony, sorrow, and sheer confusion. "Please! I'm begging you, Water, I need you! I need your help. I don't know how I can do this--this--this horrid thing of _life_--on my own. It's just so hard." Her caterwaul fell to a hoarse whisper. "Please."

Of course there was no answer, because since when do mere puddles of water speak? For that was all the Water was, just a shallow pool fed by a small tributary that branched off from the main riverbed. It was amazing how such a seemingly insignificant phenomenon could mean so much to one being.

Duskwing flopped to the forest floor, shaking. She made to bury her head in her paws, but before she could wallow in her self-pity she decided to give Water just one more chance. Leaning forward, she leaned over the edge of the Water and gazed down into its glassy black depths.

As she broke down, trembling like mad with gasping sobs, her reflection stared back at her.

* * *

**And so ends chapter two. Woot!**

**Leave a review! In fact, let's make it into a bit of a competition.... ;) If you can/care to state the correct answer to all FIVE riddles mentioned in this chapter, you can have a prize. A cookie, maybe? Or perhaps a **_**Warriors**_** oneshot written especially for you [by myself], on the subject/characters of your choice? 8D I'm serious! But only if you get them right, of course. _(PS! Send them to me via PM unless you want other people to see your guesses.)_**

**I'm also curious to know...now that you've gotten a taste of each of them, between the two, which do you prefer more as a character? Rushwhisker or Duskwing? I was just, y'know, wondering, because I'm trivial like that. :P**

**(Personally, I am totally in love with both of them, but after writing this chapter I now realize that Duskwing is so totally crazy. Crazy, in a really wonky, intelligent way. xDD I never thought it would turn out that way, but it did, so oh, well~ ;D Still sexy!) **

**Love, love, and love,**

**--Annie;;/**

**_Tuesday, February 24, 2009_**


	4. Intruder

**Chapter three! Yay! Special thanks to Kelly, who kept me motivated through the final writing stages of this piece and suggested a name used for a character introduced in this chapter. ;D This is for you. Love ya!**

**Also, thanks/congrats to everyone who sent in riddle answers for last chapter's contest thingy. I'd mention names, only...I forgot them. Oops. :x If you never got feedback on your answers and would still like some, PM me about it and I'll get back to you.**

**Review responses: **

**[painted inkblot; "But if [Duskwing's] so crazy, how is she so able to seem normal?"] **All will be explained, my friend. Eventually. ;D

**[feathercloud13; "So I take it that Duskwing and Rushwhisker are in the same Clan? I think I kind of missed that part."] **Yes, both of them are in RiverClan. :)

**Lastly: I've received a few comments about Smokethorn "not having much of a face" in previous chapters, so I tried to give him more of a personality in this one. –crosses fingers- Here goes nothing!**

* * *

**[Things Not Seen]**

_.intruder.  
_

Fear scent was thick in the air.

It clogged in Rushwhisker's nostrils and whispered into the corners of his brain, choking him and his thoughts alike. He couldn't breathe. For quite a while he could concentrate on nothing but clearing himself of the sickening emotion, which was probably why he nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized he was not alone.

Stifling his sudden yowl of surprise, he stared with wide eyes at the small figure. His fur bristled and his breath came in nervous gasps as he crouched, trembling. Almost absentmindedly, he wondered if he really was terrified or if the current atmosphere was merely influencing his senses. Then he decided that he really didn't care.

Rushwhisker was pretty certain it was a cat that stood before him, but then again it was hard to tell for sure; the thick grey mist that veiled the other creature obscured his view. Whatever it was, it certainly was a tiny thing; just the tips of a pair of ears peeked through the fog, and these only came halfway up Rushwhisker's forelegs.

"W-who are you?" Rushwhisker's voice and limbs shook in unison. "Answer me! Who's there?"_ . . . ere . . . ere . . . ere?_ His question's echo was the only response he received.

A breeze picked up, stirring the smoky screen aside; very slowly, the cat behind it was revealed. First their paws, which were minuscule and snowy white in hue, and after that their sleek, soot-coloured flank. Tendrils of mist wound around their legs, licking at the fur there like the river at its banks. Then this, too, was blown away by the sourceless wind, and at last the feline--for it was indeed a cat--was uncovered in its entirely.

Rushwhisker's gaze travelled swiftly over the dark grey silhouette. Its tail swished back and forth and its chin was held high, the very image of status and pride. Yet it was not the air of respect that caused Rushwhisker's mouth to fall open in a shriek, although no sound came out. And, though his instincts screamed at him to flee, he couldn't move; his paws were frozen to the ground.

The she-cat before him had no face.

**o0O0o **

He was breathing loud and hard when he came to. Panting, he scrambled into a sitting position and gazed around the den. Watery orange sunlight was leaking through the reeds, and most of the warriors were still dozing in their nests. _Only dawn,_ Rushwhisker thought to himself. Well, at least he hadn't slept in again. Now, if only he could . . .

"Rushwhisker!"

Cloudstripe's white head emerged through the entrance, and Rushwhisker bent his head to lick a few scraps of moss from his chest before mewing, "Yes?"

"You're wanted for the dawn patrol. They're getting ready to leave now, so I'd hurry if I were you."

Muttering his acknowledgement, Rushwhisker heaved himself out of his bed and made to exit the den. As he passed Cloudstripe, fury burned in his veins as he saw the pity showing plainly in the senior warrior's eyes. Why couldn't they all just leave him alone already? "And I don't need your sympathy, so stop looking at me like that!" he spat over his shoulder, contempt icing his voice. Cloudstripe glanced away as Rushwhisker retreated, saying nothing.

Rushwhisker made a mental note to tell Icepaw that her father was just like the rest of them. They were all the same, honestly--flat, blank, and boring. They showed no real emotions, no nothing; the only thing they were good at doing was making total fools of themselves. He actually laughed aloud to himself as the thought struck him that perhaps StarClan had swiped all the other cats of personality and thrown the extra emotion's weight onto him. Haha. Well, all that proved was that StarClan was just as fox-dunged as his Clanmates. No surprise there.

A pawful of cats had assembled in the clearing. Owlfeather was there, her mottled tabby coat shining in the early sun, as was her ginger apprentice, Bouncepaw, who was too busy living up to her name to look like she was taking anything seriously. Owlfeather nodded hello to Rushwhisker as he approached, but he ignored her and turned away.

After a few heartbeats, he sat down and wrapped his tail around his paws. A cool breeze ruffled his fur, and he hunched his shoulders, trying to stay warm. Behind him, Owlfeather spoke up, "It's quite chilly, isn't it? Just another sign that leaf-fall is almost here, I guess."

Rushwhisker twitched his tail in agreement. "Yeah, no kidding," he meowed, trying to keep his tone civil. "Stupid weather, eh? Stupid seasons, too. Stupid everything!" It wasn't like he was expecting an answer, but he noticed that Owlfeather didn't say anything else. Rushwhisker closed his eyes.

Pawsteps brushed the sand behind him. "I've just been speaking with Cinderstar. Is everyone here? Good! Let's head out, then."

Rushwhisker's heart sank upon recognizing the voice. _Why?_ he felt like yowling, despite knowing it wouldn't be any use. He reopened his eyes just as Smokethorn entered his line of vision, although his father didn't even glance his way. With a jerk of his tail, the senior warrior signalled that the three cats were to follow him. Rushwhisker's paws carried him reluctantly through the camp entrance and into the forest.

Smokethorn fell automatically into the lead, while Rushwhisker could hear Owlfeather murmuring quietly to her apprentice as they raced a few fox-lengths behind. He hesitated, unsure of whether he should fall back with the others or simply run where he was. Shooting a glare at his only living kin, he felt a strong pang of anger for the discomfort he knew his father meant to cause him.

Then, however, his thoughts took an unexpected turn.

They were heading parallel to the river, looking like their trail was going to take them down its banks before doubling back to give the ThunderClan border the all-clear. After a moment's hesitation, Rushwhisker sped his pace until he was bounding alongside Smokethorn. He swallowed; it felt like there was a lump in his throat. He would just _try_; that was all he had to do, right? Even though his resolve to keep his temper in check seemed more than a little unsure, at least _trying_ was better than nothing . . . right?

Smokethorn's big grey head turned as his son pulled up beside him, malignance clear in his eyes, and Rushwhisker immediately cursed himself for even thinking he could do this. Then Icepaw's words rang clear as a bell in his mind, though it was already bubbling with the danger of his fury: _Smokethorn can only hurt you like that if you allow him to! All you have to do is stand up for yourself._ He set his jaw and struggled to delay the tickly burning sensation in his toes. _Just try_.

"What in the name of holy fox-dung do _you _want?" Smokethorn snapped. The thin hold Rushwhisker was managing to keep over the monster wavered but did not break. Pleased with himself, he responded calmly, a touch of a taunting tone just under--but not totally concealed in--his voice.

"You mean I can't just come up and say 'hi' to my old dad anymore?" He feigned a wounded expression, but it came out more like a grimace; he doubted he'd ever referred to his father as 'dad' in his entire life. Like before, it was as if something was stuck in his throat, blocking his airway.

Instant suspicion flared in Smokethorn's expression, and, honestly, Rushwhisker couldn't blame him. A dozen different emotions flickered across Smokethorn's face before he realized how much he was showing and wiped it clean, settling on coolly superior acknowledgement. His father, Rushwhisker figured, was going to find out what was wanted of him before showing any kindness in return.

The older tom sniffed. "Oh, just checking. Finally letting go of that attitude of yours, then? Just a friendly conversation . . . you sure that's all you want?"

Hurt spread across his son's face once more, genuine this time; it twisted in his belly. Shame burned his face under his ashy fur, and he felt almost . . . sick that his "attitude," as his father called it, caused his Clanmates to think of him so. He had always brushed off their irritating sympathy—and, hey, it wasn't as if he was _regretting _that now; he would do it again in a heartbeat—but . . . did they really regard him with such frightened antagonism?

He tried to shrug it off, telling himself that it was only his father, eternally blaming him for the death of his mother. It was easy to convince himself so; Rushwhisker had never received even an ounce of love from Smokethorn, the fox-hearted son-of-a-badger . . . . He drew in a slow breath before he spoke again.

"No, I just wanted to talk." There was a pause. "Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about my mother."

Rushwhisker heard Smokethorn catch his breath, and he wondered if bringing up the subject was _more_ than really stupid thing to do. He thought about all the ways his father would use it against him, would hate him for Berryfoot's death at newly elevated levels.

He watched Smokethorn's face carefully. A spasm of anger flashed across it, but after a moment, the expression cooled to one of . . . understanding? Rushwhisker wasn't certain. He _was_ fairly positive that he'd never seen it in Smokethorn's face, though; that was sure. There was something almost unnerving about the way his features were set now, how the lines of his jaw seemed softer, how the low gleam in his eyes _wasn't_ menacing. His pace fell to a walk, and Rushwhisker mirrored him, his pads pressing into the damp leaves.

"Your mother's name was Berryfoot," Smokethorn began slowly, and Rushwhisker was so shocked that he very nearly tripped over his own paws. Behind them, Owlfeather seemed to realize that the two males' conversation might take some time; very pointedly, the senior warrior beckoned to Bouncepaw, and she and her apprentice padded down the slope toward the river for a fishing lesson. Smokethorn sat down on the gravel and gestured for his son to sit as well.

"Berryfoot was one of the kindest, sweetest cats you could ever imagine, with fur black as midnight and . . . oh, she had the most beautiful eyes. Bright green, impossibly green, like . . . like leaf buds in newleaf." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Your mother was beautiful. I'm sorry she's dead."

There was a hesitation, during which Rushwhisker, fighting the monster even now at the description of his mother, contemplated touching Smokethorn with his tail. _No,_ he thought at last, _it's_ _better not to risk it._ Then his father continued.

"You had a sister in your litter, too; did you know that?" Rushwhisker nodded 'yes'; he had heard about how she had been stillborn, never to see the light of the world, never to feel the wind on her fur . . . . The older warrior went on, "Yes . . . she was born first, before you, but she was already dead. Berryfoot named the two of you in her dying breath, not even realizing that her daughter had died. Tricklekit . . . hmph. Would she have had her mother's green eyes, I wonder . . . ?" Now Smokethorn's tone was hard, and his head swivelled around so he could fix his only living kit with a fierce yellow glare. "Green eyes; ha! Well, I guess we'll never know what colour Tricklekit's would have been now, huh?"

Rushwhisker recoiled, trembling as he pressed himself into the ground. But his father was not done yet. "And after all this, what's happened? I get loaded with _you_." Fuming. Burning. Glaring. There was a shaky pause, and then, bleakly: "I wish they had lived instead of you."

Dead silence seemed to ripple through the forest.

Rushwhisker was abruptly hurt beyond description, but of course the anger reached him first. Of course it did. In half a heartbeat he was on his paws, his own amber eyes--a pair that matched Smokethorn's exactly--smouldering with rage. It whipped outwards from his body in all directions, and it was as if the air around him was suddenly hotter than the sun. Smokethorn sat calmly, his tail around his paws, just listening to the words. To the screaming.

When Rushwhisker had finished, Smokethorn simply shook his head. "My, my," he murmured, all the sickening contempt back in his meow now, "I see that you still have a long way to go with that temper of yours." He turned away from his son, going to fetch back Owlfeather and Bouncepaw.

With his father's back still facing him, Rushwhisker snapped, "Does your face hurt?"

It was just too easy to imagine Smokethorn's eyes narrowing in the brief moment before he shot back, "No; why should it?"

"Because it's killing me!" Rushwhisker cried gleefully. He had already disappeared when Smokethorn whipped around again, hissing.

He bounded through the trees, mixed hatred and amusement frothing within him. After he was well away from where he knew the others would still be standing, dumbfounded, he slowed his pace and veered deeper into the brush. He was still laughing, but the sound was twisted in a brutal sense of the word. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Repeating the word in his head, he continued to pad along, his pelt swathed in the cool shade the trees cast over the ground. Without really realizing it, he shook his head back and forth, slowly, painstakingly, as hurt like deadly claws scraped through him. Questions, too--they battered at his head like unsheathed blows. Would he and his father share actual bonds of friendship, if Berryfoot had lived? Would his mother have been proud of him, as a queen should be proud of her kit? What colour would Tricklekit's eyes have been? Green, like her mother's? Or amber like Smokethorn's?

Now they would never know.

Rushwhisker wanted to growl, chastise himself for caring. Why _should_ he care, anyway? He should live in the moment, not in the past or the future or what might have been if things weren't so incredibly screwed up. He tried to concentrate on the scents in the forest, overwhelming all together but easy enough to categorize if you what you were doing. Herbs--juniper, watermint, marigold. Prey--a squirrel frolicking in the surrounding trees, a mouse in its burrow somewhere nearby. And there was something else . . .

Rushwhisker froze in place, his nose up and his mouth open, sniffing excessively. _It couldn't be . . ._

But it was, and he knew it. He could _smell _it: the scent, not a day stale, of a cat--a cat that was certainly not of his Clan. Yet who could it be? Who would dare to wander so far from the territory markers? Then again, he wasn't even sure that it was a Clan cat at all.

He had to find out; it was his duty to his RiverClan. He bent and put his nose close to the ground, picking up and memorizing the trespasser's scent. His paws moved underneath him as he followed the trail, tracing it through the undergrowth until he came to the base of a large silver maple. He raised his head to look at it, but there wasn't much to see; the dense leaves blocked out the branches--and anything that might be hiding in them.

He would have to climb the tree, then. _Well,_ he thought grimly, _so be it. _

Any of the anger he had previously felt that day was gone now; his mind was focused solely on the task at hand. Which, he admitted to himself, was still rather on the unknown side, but . . . he figured the plan of action would become apparent to him once he discovered more.

Halfway up the tree, Rushwhisker stopped. The intruder's scent had changed from lingering to faint to . . . nonexistent. There was nothing; though Rushwhisker inhaled deeply, the trail had disappeared completely. His whiskers twitched. What would he do now?

After some deliberation, he decided to climb a bit higher, just to see if the scent picked up again. His tail waving to assist his balance, he jumped again, his front paws stretching for the branch above him.

When he landed, the trespasser's scent, fresh and immediate, hit him in the face like an early leafbare blizzard.

Pivoting on the branch, he bunched his muscles and launched himself in the opposite direction. His flying leap brought him crashing through the leaves, and his pelt snagged on the sharp thorns, tearing his fur in the process--

Rushwhisker burst from the cover of the undergrowth and skidded to a halt in front of the others. "Smokethorn!" he bawled, panting, "there's a rogue back there!" He jerked his tail toward the trees. "I caught its scent; stale at first, then overlaid with a fresher trail . . . very fresh. I climbed a maple, and it hit me full on: definitely not of our Clan. Smokethorn, there's a trespasser_ right_ here, _right_ now!"

There was a stunned silence for several heartbeats, during which everyone stood frozen; whether their mouths were open from shock or the act of scenting--or both--Rushwhisker wasn't sure.

Then Smokethorn sprang into action. "We have to move, now!" he hissed, ears already swivelling and alert. "We should split up and surround them; there are four of us, so that should be enough. If they're alone, they won't be stupid enough to put up a fight. Rushwhisker, circle up around towards Fourtrees and then start closing in. Owlfeather, take your apprentice down the river and back again. I'll cut them off here."

Bouncepaw's amber eyes were large as she piped up, "But what if they try to escape?"

"They sure as stars won't get through with it. We'll catch them." Smokethorn's voice was taut.

"And if it turns out that they _are _from enemy Clans?"

Owlfeather hissed at her apprentice at the same moment Smokethorn yowled, "There's no time for mouse-brained questions, Bouncepaw! We have to move! _Now!_"

That was invitation enough for Rushwhisker; he didn't look back as he turned and streaked into the trees. The forest was a green blur around him as he raced through it, his heart pounding.

Thoughts--mainly questions, really--thundered through his head, blocking out all else. Who was the intruder, and what did they want? What business did they have on his territory? Was RiverClan in danger?

The queries were so overwhelming that there was no space in his head to think of much more; that probably explained why he almost ran headlong into another cat before realizing that his paws were carrying him towards his Clan's camp.

"Mr-_row_!" the other cat yelped in surprise, skidding to avoid Rushwhisker's startled grey form. The she-cat turned, and he saw that it was Duskwing, her green eyes wide. "Rushwhisker?! What in StarClan's name are you doing--"

"Come quickly, there isn't much time!" he hissed at the tabby warrior. Though there was no mistaking the bewilderment in her gaze, she obliged, following him as he tore off once more into the woods.

Rushwhisker mewed out a hurried explanation as they ran, and before long the confusion in Duskwing's expression morphed to determination. When he had briefed her of the rough story, he cut the flow of words and concentrated on the rhythmic beat of their paws churning over the leaves. Heavy doses of chagrin and anxiety hung over them like a storm cloud, ready to pour at any moment. Rushwhisker worried that they would be too late, that they wouldn't manage to meet up with their Clanmates before a fight broke out. Would Owlfeather, Bouncepaw and his father be able to hold off the rogue on their own?

He tried to push the disturbing thoughts away, telling himself he was just being paranoid.

Ah, paranoia. He laughed to himself as he ran.

By the time Rushwhisker and Duskwing reached them, the others had already reunited and were crowded at the base of a huge tree not far from the maple Rushwhisker had climbed. As the two young warriors came to a halt, Smokethorn meowed, directing his words into the green of the leaves, "Come down now, rogue, and nobody needs to be hurt."

Rushwhisker strained to see through the thick foliage; he thought he caught a glimpse of copper fur before the colour flashed out of sight. Then a female's high voice spoke in a rasp that seemed greatly in need of honey.

"Ha! As if. Leave me alone, you mangy furball."

The fur along Rushwhisker's spine was abruptly on end. How _dare_ a rogue, the lowest of the low, speak to his father like that! Couldn't the idiotic creature feel the dignity radiating off the warriors assembled below, the respect required when addressing them? His claws tore into the grass as the madness in him broke through.

"Rogue!" he yowled, furious, "you have some nerve! If I were you, I would get my furry butt down here before--"

He stumbled backwards as Owlfeather's heavy paw connected with the back of his skull; at the same time, Smokethorn stepped in front of his bristling figure and growled for his son to shut up. Rushwhisker's skin blazed with heat. Sweeping his tail into the air in an icy warning for silence, Smokethorn spoke to the rogue once more, coaxing her with questions.

In return, the voice came again, and the raging monster continued to burn on Rushwhisker's tongue while he listened, intent.

"Why should I answer your questions? Really, it's none of your business who I am. Or what I'm doing here."

"Unfortunately, rogue, it's _precisely_ our business. What, do you expect us to let you walk away? Roam wherever you please?" Smokethorn's reply was grim, and Owlfeather's expression was much the same. "You are intruding our territory."

For a heartbeat there was an absence of sound. Then--

"My name is Magnolia. And I'm here because I feel like it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Rushwhisker saw Bouncepaw shift her weight nervously from one paw to the other; beside her, Duskwing had her head cocked slightly to one side, as if attempting to decode the rogue's curious response. Smokethorn and Owlfeather, the senior warriors, exchanged a glance.

"Magnolia," Owlfeather mewed, "this would be so much easier if you came down here so we could speak face to face."

Another pause. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"We are warriors of RiverClan, loyal to our leaders, to our Clans, to the Warrior Code. I swear to StarClan that you will not be harmed—as long as you cooperate."

Bouncepaw let out a shriek of fear as a lithe orange shape hurtled down from the tree they were standing around. She wasn't the only one surprised; Duskwing and Owlfeather scrambled backward, and Smokethorn let out startled yowl. Rushwhisker flattened his ears, waiting for the sickening crunch of bone and pain.

It never came.

With surprising agility, the rogue landed neatly on all fours with her tail sticking out. Rushwhisker examined her closely. Her bright fur was sleek and well-groomed, her eyes a pale yellow. She must have seen Rushwhisker's appraising gaze, for she straightened up and looked right at him, eyes narrowed. He turned away from her, shoulders stiff.

Smokethorn cleared his throat. "Thank you, er, Magnolia," he mewed. It's nice of you to . . . join us." He blinked, and she nodded curtly.

"Of course," she snapped. "Now, what is it that we're negotiating?"

The senior warrior seemed taken aback by her response. His nostrils flared. "You are intruding on RiverClan's territory. I'm going to have to ask you to leave immediately, or else, I assure you, we will have you removed by force."

"You promised that you wouldn't hurt me."

"Only if you cooperated," reminded Owlfeather.

Nobody said anything for a long moment. The air was tense, crackly, the way Rushwhisker felt right before he lost his temper. The way he felt now.

"What if I don't feel like leaving?" the rogue meowed at last. "I still don't understand why I have to. I'm only passing through." Rushwhisker thought he heard a note of challenge in her tone.

Smokethorn took a step forward, baring his teeth. "This is our _territory_, rogue. It's our duty to defend it. You're lucky you were caught in that tree and not down here; you would have been torn to _shreds_!" He spat the word. "Now get out!"

Magnolia didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked suddenly around to fix her golden eyes on Rushwhisker. "This is your son, isn't he?"

Unsure of what the rogue meant to do, Smokethorn nodded once after a slight hesitation. "Yes."

"I thought so. He is very much like you."

It took Rushwhisker a second to comprehend her words.

When he did, the hatred engulfed him.

"No, Rushwhisker!" snarled Smokethorn, but it was too late. Rushwhisker sprang at the intruder and knocked her to the ground, ripping into her fur from every angle he could. _How dare she compare him to his father! How _dare_ she! _He didn't think, no, he _couldn't_ think, consumed by the assailing rage as he was. The sharp scent of blood pierced his nose, but all he could think of was the anger, the fury, the--

One moment he was on top of Magnolia, and the next Owlfeather's teeth were in his scruff, Duskwing beside her, the two of them yanking him away from the rogue. Another growl blew out of him as they flung him down, and though his limbs lashed above him, they made contact with nothing. Somebody planted their weight on his belly, pinning him. He didn't look up to see who it was. He just concentrated on breathing properly. His flailing limbs slowed, and after a while, he stopped resisting.

From somewhere far away, he heard Owlfeather's meow: "Bouncepaw, go back to camp. Tell Cinderstar where we are and ask her to send help; we've caught a trespasser on our territory, but she's injured. Hurry!" Rushwhisker snorted. Yes, send the apprentice away; they wouldn't want such young, _innocent_ cats to be around an influence like him, would they?

He struggled to raise his head; the movement hurt more than he thought it should. Gazing around, he took in the scene: Duskwing was holding him down, her face expressionless; meanwhile, Owlfeather and his father were crouched over Magnolia's still form, talking in low tones and glancing back at him every now and then. Reality came back to him slowly, saturating him one piece at a time, like rain. He felt cold. What had he done?

After what seemed like an eternity, Smokethorn left Owlfeather with the rogue and padded over to him. "You can let me up now," he muttered to Duskwing, but she didn't move. Stupid female.

Smokethorn came to stand over his son, his face upside-down in Rushwhisker's vision. "Well, Rushwhisker, you've mauled the rogue into unconsciousness. Congratulations. We're taking her back to camp--and you're coming with us. I believe you've got some explaining to do."

**o0O0o**

Back in the safety of his den, Rushwhisker dreamed again that night.

He was in a forest, but he had no idea where; he didn't recognize any familiar sights or scents. Was that the trickle of water in the distance? Cocking an ear, he listened, but he couldn't quite tell. A warm breeze blew into his face, carrying with it mingling aromas of honey and rain.

The dream shifted, and all of a sudden Rushwhisker was standing in the middle of the RiverClan camp. It was nighttime—the whole landscape was swathed in a purple blanket, and pale moonlight filtered through the clouds above—but something was . . . off, somehow. Though he thought for a few moments, Rushwhisker couldn't put his paw on it. Time seemed to stand still as he pondered, not even knowing what he was looking for, totally unsure of what it was he yearned to discover. On either side of the island camp, the invisible river sloshed on, dark and mysterious.

A sound from behind broke his concentration, and he let out a little yelp of surprise as he spun around.

How many times now had he dreamed of the faceless cat? He knew he wouldn't be able to count even if he tried. He longed to uncover the stranger's identity, to understand why they controlled his dreams so; such constant recurrences must mean _something_, no? . . . No?

Yet there was the cat once again, standing somewhat inconspicuously beside a clump of reeds near the warriors' den, facing away from Rushwhisker. Their grey tail swished through the air, stirring dust particles around stubby hind legs and diminutive white paws. As always, Rushwhisker was struck by how absolutely _tiny_ this creature was, how dainty and fragile their body seemed to be. He felt sheer power run through his veins, the pressure building, slowly but surely; he had no doubt in his mind that he could snap the little cat's spine with one easy blow of his paw.

He shook his head quickly, back and forth, aghast at his own thoughts. What was he even _thinking_? That was the problem with dreams. They were strange enough with merely their fuzzy characters and mindless settings intact, but on top of that they caused endless inner ramblings and disturbing queries. As if to prove this point, Rushwhisker found that he couldn't put his paw on what he had been previously been thinking about, nor what had led up to the thoughts that currently swarmed in his head. So _confusing_ . . .

And then, snapping out of it, he remembered to tiny grey stranger.

He forced himself into alert mode, though he didn't really think it was all that necessary. Some part of his brain had already informed him that this was just another one of those repetitive dreams; sooner or later, thick grey mist would cloud over (and then fade from) the small cat before him, the cat that continued to stand perfectly still save for the ceaseless flicking of their tail. In just a few heartbeats, the little feline would rotate around and expose their . . . nothing. For they wouldn't have a face to show—just a flat, blank visage of rippling charcoal fur.

Rushwhisker knew that this was going to happen, but he braced himself nonetheless.

But this time was different.

Shockingly--incredibly—this time was _different_.

One heartbeat, there was silence, still and serene; the next, a whirlwind of leaves exploded into the air and the grey cat was racing away, out of camp, out of sight.

"_Hey!_" Rushwhisker yowled, startled. "Hey, wait up! Come back here!" But he got no response, and before he fully realized what he was doing he was running after the stranger, the exhilaration of pursuit adding wings to his paws.

He caught up to them near Fourtrees. The stranger stopped suddenly, and, hot on their paws, Rushwhisker had to skid across the dried pine leaves to stop himself from barrelling into them. "What are you _doing_?" he panted, feeling drained from his race through the forest. There was a moment's pause, and then: "Who _are _you?"

The air stood still, like the world was holding its breath; everything was quiet. The only movement was the twinkling of the stars.

And then the tiny stranger turned around, and Rushwhisker gasped at the sight--the revelation.

A nose, pink and petite. Whiskers, long and gossamer, twitching with something like amusement. Eyes, deep emerald jewels set into a smoky grey face, gleaming with beauty and wonder and light.

But most importantly: a mouth. A feature filled with absolute guile. Curved into a grin at first, and then bowing open to expose a fleshy rose gum line.

The dead kitten spoke, and Rushwhisker's ears were filled with the high-pitched ring of a fallen star.

"Don't you know, Rushwhisker? You must have heard of me--I'm sure of it.

"I'm your sister.

"I'm Tricklekit."

**

* * *

****Cliffhanger. DUN. =OOO**

**As for that bothersome purple prose, I'm working at cutting it down--for my lover Julie-wa especially. :D Any better? **

**Review!**

**--Moosie C8K**

**_Friday, July 31, 2009_**


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